‘Come on,’ he said and led me down a narrow hall toward the back of the house. I tried to shake off my nerves. Matt was a good guy – he’d driven me home when I was sick. It was all okay. What did Zara know anyway?
His bedroom was lit by a bare bulb attached to the high ceiling. The room was tidy, everything in its place, pencil boxes lined up neatly on an old school desk, an easel stowed in the corner, bed made, floordrobe non-existent. Just as well we weren’t meeting in my bedroom.
Matt indicated a wooden kitchen chair next to the desk, but I was distracted by the myriad of art covering the walls: more of his pencil drawings and a few canvases adorned with bright acrylic paint.
He sat on the bed watching me examine his art. ‘You don’t like it then?
‘What?’
‘The drawing I gave you.’
I looked at the roll of paper still in my hand. ‘No, yes … I mean, I do, I love it.’ I was sounding less convincing by the minute, but I could hardly tell him it had reminded me of a nightmare I’d had. ‘But why? I mean, why do you want to give it away?’
‘Because you liked it. At least, I thought you did. Take something else, if you want. Something more upbeat.’
I examined the other drawings on the walls, most of them portraits but with a surrealist twist. I looked back at him. ‘Got any ponies and rainbows?’ I said.
He laughed. ‘I’ll try not to be insulted by that.’
‘No, really, I want this one.’ I held up the roll of paper. ‘It’s great. Thank you. That’s why I came over. To say thanks.’
‘Okay then.’ He smiled and crossed his legs on the bed.
‘What are you going to do with all these?’ I asked, desperately wanting to change the subject. ‘You should sell them or something.’ I stepped closer to the walls.
‘I want to go to art college. I’m getting a portfolio together.’
‘What about school? Are you finished?’
‘Er, no. I still have a year to go. I’ve been doing distance education for a couple of months, but next year I might go to a school in Brisbane where I can specialise in art for year twelve. If I get in.’
‘Right. Brisbane. That’s a long way away.’
‘I have an uncle there. I can stay with him.’
The questions about Craigsville High and the drugs remained unasked on my lips. None of your business, Sunny.
‘I saw you at the creek yesterday,’ he said.
‘You did?’ I faced him, trying not to look as guilty as I felt. He probably thought I was some sort of snob, like everyone else in Kelly’s Crossing, not willing to mix with someone who had a dodgy past. I guess he’d be partly right. Zara had coloured my opinion, and I’d been stupid to pay any attention.
‘You didn’t see me?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah. I did. Sorry, I was … I had a few things on my mind (true). Sometimes I’m not very good company (kind of true but that wasn’t really the reason).’
‘It’s okay. I get it.’
He thought I was talking about my mum dying and me grieving and all that. I’m ashamed to say that I went along with it. That way I didn’t look like such a jerk – I was a jerk, but I didn’t want to look like one.
‘I would’ve said hello, I just … I just needed to be alone. I get a bit … I don’t know.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Really.’
There were lots of unspoken words hanging in the air but neither of us grabbed for them. He didn’t ask any questions about Mum’s accident and I was grateful for that. Usually people wanted to know the gory details. When it happened, girls I had never spoken to came up to me, crowded around and waited for the story. I always remembered my English teacher saying that the newspapers have a motto: ‘If it bleeds, it leads’. People get a thrill out of death and drama, but I can tell you, there’s no thrill to it. It’s all fine to hear about stuff like that as long as it hasn’t happened to you.
I never did give those girls at school my story either. What I had said was, ‘What do you want, an action replay?’ I’d also said, ‘Get in your car and drive at a hundred kilometres an hour into a tree. That’s what it was like.’
They could find their own drama.
‘So, what was she like?’ Matt said, lying back on his bed, folding his arms behind his head.
I stared at him. ‘Who?’
‘Your mum.’
‘Mum?’ I was a little taken aback. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about her since she died, not even to Greenwood, as hard as he’d tried to crack me. I swallowed and sat down on the chair. ‘She was different, but in a good way.’
I think that was the moment I knew Matt was something special. He knew what to ask me. No-one had ever thought of asking that question; they’d wanted to know about Mum’s end, not about what came before. As I told him about Mum and all her quirky ways – he laughed about the cat-washing – I wished I could tell him the truth about the drawing and how it reminded me of the dream. But he’d think I was irrational, having dreams about dead people.
Later, I took the drawing home and stuck it up on the front of my wardrobe with Blu Tack, next to the photo of me and Dad and Rocket. I stepped back and stared at it. I figured if I looked at it for long enough, I’d get used to it and then maybe the idea of Dylan being dead would go away. I knew if he really was dead there was no-one I could tell. No-one. Because if I explained what was happening to me, people would think I had finally lost it.
